Chapter 35: The Bearing of a Demon Lord

“This is hardly my fault. Who told you to speak so unclearly? Now look what’s become of it—what am I supposed to do?”

Staring at the pitiful wretch before him, drooling, dull-eyed, already driven into idiocy by the Demonic Illusion, Chen Yang’s expression grew a touch awkward.

He had turned over a new leaf, spent over half a year cultivating his mind and nature. This rare lapse into his old ways—he’d never imagined it would end in such a farce. Truly…

It gave him a headache. The cultivators of this world, their dispositions left much to be desired.

That so-called Invincible Yang had made a grand entrance, all impressive bearing and momentum. At first, buoyed by his unbreakable conviction, he’d even managed to brush off Chen Yang’s secret demonic arts.

But he was not truly invincible. After being thoroughly bested by Chen Yang’s superior Wutai swordsmanship, that unyielding faith began to crumble at a staggering pace, collapsing into self-doubt.

And without that conviction, the selfish, self-serving “Invincible Yang” proved even more pathetic than most.

Chen Yang had barely lifted a finger; this so-called Invincible Yang was already reduced to a shattered soul by the Demonic Illusion, now a babbling fool. Compared to those wretches Qi Jinchán and the Laughing Monk, he was even more pitiful.

“This physique would make fine material for refining a divine demon.”

“What’s done is done. To save us both trouble, don’t blame me for lacking mercy—it cannot be helped.” Shaking his head with a sigh, Chen Yang pointed to the Supreme Spirit Banner.

The banner, which had appeared a celestial treasure, all radiant with five-colored mist and the twin streams of yin and yang, now spun—its colors dissolving into a swirl of abyssal demonic light; the twin energies twisted into a blood-red ribbon, coiling about the bone-white staff.

Upon its surface, crimson runes writhed as if bleeding, dazzling and sinister.

A fierce demon god—feet astride dragon and serpent, bony spines jutting from its back—threw its head back in a silent roar, as though it would tear the banner apart and devour all creation.

This was the banner’s true form: the Supreme Heavenly Demon Banner.

Refined by Chen Yang to such a degree, a single glance from an ordinary soul would see their spirit snared by the demon within, forever trapped in the banner, slave to the demon god through endless ages, denied even the hope of release.

In ferocity, this banner towered above all others—even on Mount Shu, none could surpass it, and only the Blood God Scripture’s incarnate child might stand beside it.

With a beckoning gesture, the banner leapt into his grasp. A slight shake, and the demon god upon its face greedily swept away what remained of Invincible Yang’s shattered soul.

The demonic light surged, conjuring endless hellish visions.

As Yang’s soul dissolved into the demonic domain, it also began to reform.

But this Yang was no longer the same; Chen Yang had used the Supreme Heavenly Demon Banner to forge a new world of demons, recasting memory and experience, shaping an entirely new Yang from the ashes of the old.

To conjure something from nothing, to forge reality from illusion—such sorcery bordered on the miraculous.

If he possessed the True Water of the Blood River to temper the soul, the Celestial Water of Creation to blend body and spirit, the Eternal Light Water to reflect past and future and mend the cycles of cause and effect…

With such treasures and supreme sorcery together, it would even be possible to create a true “human” from nothing.

Of course, Chen Yang possessed neither that level of attainment nor those legendary waters.

Though these memories were conjured from thin air, in the end, they had the original Yang as their root—merely endowed with experiences he never truly lived, shifting his understanding.

It sounded mysterious—and it was. Without mastery of supreme sorcery, no amount of power could bring forth such an effect.

A lesser magician inserting false memories would find his subject forever estranged from them, unable to truly accept them as real.

Chen Yang’s brilliance lay in this: though the memories were false, in his hands, they became as real as any truth.

For demons, what they perceive is reality; what they do not, is illusion. Truth and falsehood rest on a single thought.

This is the foundation of supreme magic—the highest demonic realm: with a thought, a world is born.

“Still you slumber? What are you waiting for?”

A word of demonic command roused the lost soul of “Invincible Yang” from the depths of the demonic domain.

“You…” The newly awakened “Yang” saw Chen Yang beaming at him, and panic seized his heart. Instinctively, he readied himself to resist—but at a second look, a wave of inexplicable warmth washed over him. With a third, fragments of memory, long buried, began to surface.

Doubt, uncertainty, disbelief—

Chen Yang’s smile grew gentler. He spoke softly:

“Foolish child, do you not recognize your master?”

Yang Xuan—this new “Invincible Yang”—felt his mind erupt in a blinding storm.

Countless memories flooded in. Hesitation vanished. He dropped to his knees, choking with emotion:

“Master, at last, your disciple beholds you again!”

Chen Yang nodded with satisfaction. Compared to forcibly binding a soul as a demon slave, this silent, seamless method was more befitting a true lord of demons—

And preserved all the potential of this physique, letting Yang Xuan forge a supreme demon body through his own efforts.

…

Outside in the courtyard, those waiting thought the contest was surely decided, and that the result would soon be known.

They never expected to wait three days and nights.

As the anxious disciples of the Heavenly Origin Sect fretted, and the puzzled merchants of the Four Seas Association whispered among themselves—

A swirl of radiant mist parted, and a figure strode forth.

It was none other than the one who, through patient cultivation, had fused several divine demonic arts, healed all wounds, reforged his invincible faith, and grown greatly in power—Chen Yang’s “good disciple.”

The number-one native cultivator of Baohua Continent, sect master of the Heavenly Origin Sect—True Lord Yang, the so-called “Invincible Yang.”

“Greetings, True Lord.”

“Master.”

“Sect Master.”

Seeing Yang Xuan returned with a mightier presence than ever, the crowd’s faces shifted. The disciples of the Heavenly Origin Sect were overjoyed; the members of the Four Seas Association—Sima Changfeng among them—turned ashen, nearly dropping to their knees.

But Yang Xuan ignored them all. Facing his disciple, he barked:

“Why haven’t you presented the Refined White Gold and the Twin-Lotus yet?”

His disciple hesitated a moment. But seeing his master’s stern face, eyes agleam with golden light and an unfamiliar majesty, he dared not delay. Quickly, he produced the jade boxes containing the gold and the lotus and held them up with both hands.

Yang Xuan did not take them, but bowed deeply toward the courtyard.

“Excellent.” A stream of radiant mist swept out, wrapped the jade boxes, and whisked them away into the courtyard.

Yang Xuan bowed again. The disciples of the Heavenly Origin Sect exchanged uneasy glances, unsure what had transpired.

But if even their sect master bowed, how could they remain standing? They, too, dropped to their knees in salute.

On the sect’s side, all was well enough—but the faces of the Four Seas Association’s people were a sight to behold.

Heaven and hell, hope and despair, back and forth—so many reversals that no one could keep up.

“Did…did we win?”

Shangguan Yun whispered hesitantly.

Sima Changfeng nodded, casting a sidelong glance at True Lord Yang, who, though his presence was soaring, now acted with the utmost respect. He hesitated:

“I fear it’s more than that, it’s…”

He never finished. A streamer of radiant mist swept him up and hauled him into the courtyard.

Chen Yang’s calm voice drifted out: “The rest of you may go.”

Sima Changfeng, it seemed, still hadn’t grasped the warning Chen Yang once gave him—too clever for his own good, unable to see that true wisdom lies in feigned simplicity.

He simply knew too much.